


S13 Episode Codas

by jemariel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Destiel - Freeform, Episode Related, Grieving Dean, M/M, Season/Series 13, Season/Series 13 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 09:43:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12362973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemariel/pseuds/jemariel
Summary: Collecting my season 13 episode codas, cross-posting to tumblr. Going to try and do something for every episode.Tags, characters, etc will be added as time goes on.





	S13 Episode Codas

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! ^_^ These are my episode codas... Does what it says on the tin, really. They will be pretty quick and dirty mostly, just trying to get the feels out before the next episode happens. But that's what codas and tumblr fics are for, right?
> 
> Rating will probably change after the big reunion >.> Something to look forward to heh.
> 
> This first one hurts, but then, it was always going to....
> 
> Big hugs to my ladies on WhatsApp, you guys are gonna make this season amazing!

Dean can still smell the smoke.

In the car for hours on end, there’s nothing but silence and low music and road noise, Jack occasionally asking a quiet question from the back seat and Sam’s equally low answers. All that and the stink of char, gasoline, and woodsmoke. It’s a familiar smell. He’s been burning bones and bodies for most of his life, but this.

This is different.

Even when they stop for the night somewhere in Montana, the stench follows him. He has vague hopes of washing it out in the shower, but the water pressure is terrible, and the smell clings in his nose and eyes. He can’t even muscle up the energy to scrub harder to get it out of his hair; his limbs feel weighted down.

Cas.

The name floats like a whisper through his brain and he squeezes his eyes shut, tries to block it out. His knuckles are still raw and sore from earlier, but he’s tempted to punch the shower wall anyway. Might help. Probably won’t.

With a sigh he shuts off the water and starts going through the motions of getting ready for bed. By the time he steps out of the bathroom, dressed again in his day-old smoke-filled clothes, only the minty taste in his mouth lets him know that yes, at least he brushed his teeth.

Sam’s busy explaining a toothbrush to Jack, but turns his big puppy eyes and long face on Dean when he emerges. “Your turn,” Dean grunts.

“You go,” Sam says to Jack, handing him a ziplock bag full of Sam’s own soap and shit. “You think you got it?”

Jack nods, slow. “Yes, I think so. Thank you.” And disappears into the bathroom.

Silence falls again, thick and suffocating, full of tension that means Sam’s going to break it soon, try and get Dean to talk. Dean clamps his teeth firmly shut and looks at the two beds. There’s a roll-away in here somewhere, but --

“I’ll sleep in the car,” he says, and makes for the door.

“Dean, wait --”

Dean waits. Sam looks a little struck, like he wasn’t expecting that to work. “Better than making the kid sleep on a cot the first night of his life. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure about that?” Sam asks with an eyebrow cocked.

Dean just... sighs. He’s tired. He’s so tired. “Yeah. It’s been a long --” Christ, has it really only been a day? One day without -- One day since everything -- “Been a really long day.”

Sam nods. “I just.” Swallows. “I don’t know if you should be alone.”

That hits like a slap in the face. “And why is that?” The anger is sharp, hot, like a knife through the woolly numbness he’s been keeping wrapped tight around him. He knows it’s unreasonable but he latches onto it as the first thing he’s felt in -- possibly weeks -- that doesn’t hurt.

Sam shrugs. “You don’t have to be. That’s all. I know you’re --”

“You don’t know crap, okay?” Dean stabs a finger at Sam, nostrils flaring, and it’s not fair, he knows it’s not fair, they’ve both lost -- 

“Yeah, Dean, I do. I know how you felt about him.” His voice is quiet, strained. As if speaking the words will summon the ghost, and it sort of feels like that, like Dean’s heart is going to just spill out on the floor and once it starts he’s not sure he’ll be able to put it back in.

He feels his lips pinch together, the anger fizzling and fading as quick as it came. And really, he’s grateful for that; he shouldn’t be taking this out on Sam. “Yeah, well.” He fiddles with the car keys. Chews on his tongue. “Too late now.”

And then he’s out the door.

Fuck.

The cool night air is soothing for all of thirty seconds before the chill seeps into his bones; he’s shivering by the time he gets to the car, but when he opens the door to the back seat the smell of woodsmoke hits him again like a blow to the gut. He only hesitates a moment. He doesn’t want to go back inside and face a heart to heart with Sam, so he grits his teeth and climbs in. Baby cradles him like loving arms, all the dents and squeaks in the leather that he knows so well, and under the woodsmoke is the lingering smell of the old car he grew up in. He settles into it with a sigh, turns his face so it’s pressed into the leather, and searches for a single moment of peace.

It doesn’t come.

Or rather, it does, but right on the heels of it -- of course, the moment he’s safe, the moment he doesn’t have to fight for something or have a task right in front of him -- he feels his ribs clench around his lungs and the fire of tears in his eyes and he can’t stop it, not anymore. They come like a storm, drenching the leather and wracking out of him in broken sobs. But like a storm they pass quickly and he sits up to brush the evidence off his cheeks.

He sits there for a long moment, staring at his knees and getting his breath back. Letting the silence fall over him again.

And then he whispers.

“Cas?”

The name is like sandpaper in his throat, a whisper shockingly loud. “Cas, I.” He swallows. Praying to Chuck hadn’t done any good. But maybe. Probably not. But. Maybe. “Wherever you are. I just need you to hear this.”

He won’t.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “We had to -- I had to -- burn you, okay? It’s what we do. We couldn’t just leave you hanging around.”

He doesn’t know if angels can even become ghosts, but it was a risk he couldn’t take. Besides, what better option was there? Dragging him back to Kansas? No. Just. No. Burial? No -- if they were going to say goodbye to him they were going to do it right. Cas had more than earned a Hunter’s funeral, even if it tore him up inside.

“I tried praying to Chuck,” Dean continues, “I know he’s -- he’s brought you back before. But at this point, I have a hell of a lot more faith in you than in him. Okay?” He looks up through the roof of the Impala -- why do people do that when they pray? Dean does it even though he know it doesn’t make a lick of difference. He stares at the dull glint of the dome light and says “I need you to come back. I need you to find a way. Please.” He can feel the hard knot welling in his throat again, pushing against his larynx. “I just need you.”

He closes his eyes and feels the tears drop from his eyelids to his hands, clenched into fists.

It’s stupid. Pointless. Even if by some miracle Cas could hear him and find a way home, why would he want to come back? That’s how this has always been, Dean calling out to Cas with the _I need you_ and the _do this for me_ and what the hell had it ever gotten him? Exiled from his home, fallen from grace, and now --

“Dammit Cas. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry --”

And now after everything, with nothing left to lose, the words just tear out of him and it feels sort of like vomiting, and they bring with them a fresh wave of sobs and this time they won’t stop.

_”I’m sorry I loved you.”_

The only answer is silence.


End file.
